It is more probable, therefore, that not the endless delight of speculation, but this very consideration of that great commandment, does not press forward, as soon as many do, to undergo, but keeps off, with a sacred reverence and religious advisement how best to undergo—­not taking thought of being late, so it give advantage to be more fit; for those that were latest lost nothing, when the master of the vineyard came to give each one his hire.  And here I am come to a stream-head, copious enough to disburden itself, like Nilus, at seven mouths into an ocean.  But then I should also run into a reciprocal contradiction of ebbing and flowing at once, and do that which I excuse myself for not doing—­’preach and not preach.’  Yet, that you may see that I am something suspicious of myself, and do take notice of a certain belatedness in me, I am the bolder to send you some of my nightward thoughts some while since, because they come in not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian stanza, which I told you of: 

  How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
  Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! 
  My hasting days fly on with full career,
  But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th. 
  Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
  That I to manhood am arrived so near;
  And inward ripeness doth much less appear
  That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th. 
  Yet be it less, or more, or soon, or slow,
  It shall be still in strictest measure even
  To that same lot, however mean or high,
  Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. 
  All is, if I have grace to use it so,
  As ever in my great taskmaster’s eye.

By this I believe you may well repent of having made mention at all of this matter; for, if I have not all this while won you to this, I have certainly wearied you of it.  This, therefore, alone may be a sufficient reason for me to keep me as I am, lest having thus tired you singly, I should deal worse with, a whole congregation, and spoil all the patience of a parish; for I myself do not only see my own tediousness, but now grow offended with it, that has hindered me thus long from coming to the last and best period of my letter, and that which must now chiefly work my pardon, that I am your true and unfeigned friend.

TO LEONARD PHILARAS, THE ATHENIAN

The blind poet[1]

Westminster, 28 Sept. 1654.

I have always been devotedly attached to the literature of Greece, and particularly to that of your Athens; and have never ceased to cherish the persuasion that that city would one day make me ample recompense for the warmth of my regard.  The ancient genius of your renowned country has favoured the completion of my prophecy in presenting me with your friendship and esteem.  Though I was known to you only by